


Red Moon

by eonwe_s (SerendipitousSong)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pining, Self-Reflection, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerendipitousSong/pseuds/eonwe_s
Summary: “Imagine she is here,” he said to himself. “What would you tell her?”
Relationships: Aredhel/Celegorm | Turcafinwë, implied Celegorm/Aredhel
Comments: 11
Kudos: 18





	Red Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifearnocolors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifearnocolors/gifts).



> unedited as usual.
> 
> for catten <3

They shook.

Isil, shining vessel of the last bloom of Telperion, lurked blood red in the sky. It was eerie, frightening even. And what made it worse was how it reflected off Turkafinwë's silver hair, bathing him in blood even off the battlefields. It was a morbid thought, but one he often had when looking at his brother. The day had began with a blood-drenched sun, and now night had fallen. The moon was bleeding. Curufinwë did not know what it meant.

He recalled when the twin scions of days long gone had first arisen, Anar burning Turkafinwë's tender white flesh and burning their eyes, so used to the darkness that sometimes, even a half moon was too much for them. Turkafinwë hated them. He hated the lights, mockery that they were of Fëanáro's jewels.

They had been creatures of light once, but now he and his brother preferred to hide in their fortresses and under trees than to venture out in the day. He reminded himself of reclusive Morifinwë, but with less societal success and more festering rage. And with the loss of Irissë in the dark forest, Turkafinwë had become even more of a recluse, and even more ruthless. It was eerie, watching his brother and companion slowly degrade, withering away the generally happy young boy he had been under the light of the Trees. No longer did they ride across the plains, exploring this new land, or look for streams and lakes in which to swim.

It was partly his fault, Curufinwë thought. For he was an enabler, and while Turkafinwë led them often with his words and actions, Curufinwë had a way of opening up doors that otherwise would be shut. Opportunity appeared in his wake, and Turkafinwë took them greedily. They had formed a cycle of greedy give and take.

Irissë had been charming, a twinkling star to their black sky. Not sweet, per say, but accepting of many things, and gracious in ways the sons of Fëanor could never hope to be. She smoothed ruffled feathers and righted wrongs effortlessly, never batting an eye at the many bloody ways of Turkafinwë. They had found something, those two. An understanding, and even shut away in the Hidden City, she sent missive after missive of her boredom and the trouble she caused for Turukáno. His brother poured over the letters, hunched over like some sort of wild beast, and scribbled hastily his replies. Who knew what they wrote about, what conversation they ran. None but Eru, perhaps, if Eru deigned to look over a kinslayer’s shoulder in the depths of night.

Tonight, they trembled. It was cool, but weather did not hinder them. They trembled at the latest missive from their cousins. Cousin. Singular. A letter from  _ Ondolindë. _ Brief, to the point, and very, very distressing.

_ Irissë has passed, slain by a one who called her wife. She leaves behind a son. _

_ I am sorry. I understand you were close. _

Turukáno didn’t know the half of it.  _ Close  _ was an understatement, judging by the shreds of parchment that had flaked into ash in Turkafinwë’s chambers, and the brisk steps as the hunter hunted. Curufinwë did not bother to stop him, but he reached out, snagging Turkafinwë’s elbow.

“Wait. Do you not see this moon? Perilous it is, to wander around in the darkness on a moon like this!”

“It is Irissë’s blood that colors this moon. I would bask in it while it lasts.”

And there was nothing to be argued against that.

So Curufinwë let him go, and his brother was swallowed by the sounds of the forest, gleaming blood red from head to toe. His hands shook, itching to snatch his brother back to him. But he did not, and, instead, went returned home, and pondered the many ways each of the Doomed would perish before the end.

* * *

  
  
He shook.

His hands. His legs. His breath. Each rattle of air within his lungs felt false, as if he was submerged in oil and his skin was oil and everything was on fire.

He felt like he was dying.

Turkafinwë balanced along a log, uncaring of the steep drop below, and crossed to the other side. The blood moon was no coincidence, he thought. They appeared sometimes, often rising on the plains of battle as souls were gathered from corpses and ushered into Mandos. One rose when Fëanor perished, and ever since then, he had found distaste with Isil, even more so than Anar. Something that was so meek and beautiful had mocked them from his perch in the heavens, gloating of their father’s death as his  _ fëa _ was dragged into the Everlasting Darkness. Moons held no purpose but to parallel in pale comparison the blinding brightness of daylight. It made him chafe.

It reminded him of himself.

Irissë could never have been a moon. If there had been a one who might have carried Laurelin’s final fruit across the face of Eru, should Arien have refused, perhaps Irissë might have done it. She is…  _ was… _ bright. Not some softly glowing bit of silver, left over from crafting an anklet. She was the sun. And it seemed the world was quite dim without her.

He trembled, and crossed the ravine. Unsteady knees brought him to a tree. Turkafinwë climbed it swiftly, until he reached the very top, and stared at the blood moon with teary eyes.

“Are you there?”

Nothing.

“Imagine she is here,” he said to himself. “What would you tell her?”

Leaves rustled in the night breeze, and he watched as the blood drained from the face of Isil. Irissë was being gathered away, if those superstitious sayings were to be believed. One last chance to say what he’d always wished to say…

_ What would you tell her? _

“I missed you,” he whispered. And he watched the moon become white again, and decided that the Fair and the White were not meant to be after all. “I’ll miss you.”

His hands never stopped shaking, until he gazed up at the ceilings of glittering caves of Menegroth and wished he could see the moon one last time.

**Author's Note:**

> KAREN HELL KAREN HELL KAREN HELL!


End file.
